


The Serpent's Champagne

by the Science Sinner (sanguinePengu1n)



Category: The Lorax (2012)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Alcohol, Creampie, DFAB reader, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Disturbing Themes, Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Drugs, F/M, Female Reader, Forced, Implied Misgendering, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Misgendering, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Kissing, Non-Consensual Touching, Other, POV Second Person, Possible misgendering, Psychological Horror, Rape, Rape Fantasy, Reader-Insert, Trauma, dirtytalking, this greed-ler is vile and i made him that way on purpose, venting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2019-01-29 07:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12625899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinePengu1n/pseuds/the%20Science%20Sinner
Summary: Something I wrote long ago to deal with a sudden suppressed trauma episode.Reader is AFAB, implied to identify as otherwise, but be warned--they are misgendered.





	The Serpent's Champagne

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first ever time I’ve written something like this, especially a graphic non-con. Please read with caution! (Without getting into detail I’m a survivor myself and it was difficult to write this because I love this character so much and I could never imagine him forcing himself on others??? idk, the idea just came to me one day.)

Perhaps you are done for the day.

Everything’s in order; Everything’s in check. You do what your beloved boss (or master) has told you to do. Errands and chores, that is the very definition of what you do, and who you are. You do anything for him. You check the mail, clean out worthless flyers, sort out the important ones and the last thing you need to do–inform Mr. Once-ler when he comes back.

But for some reason, he is late today. Usually he isn’t, unless he tells you beforehand.   
Perhaps he forgot. Perhaps he’s attending a last-minute party. Perhaps he’s at a meeting, forgetting what time it is as temp workers return home.

Perhaps….

You take a glance at his bed. You have replaced and set up the sheets a few hours ago. Before, the sheets have been messy and there used to be a strange scent. (Not to mention a rather suspicious spot in the middle of them. Good thing you haven’t been told to clean that. He has told you earlier that it was someone else’s job.)

…He’s been thinking about me, has he? You assume. Why didn’t you sniff the sheets to make sure he has? You don’t know for sure.

You hear a bang on the bedroom door. A loud bang.

What an unfamiliar sound. It is louder than how he usually knocks. You are used to his raised voice, when his servants are messing something up or when he’s trying to negotiate with a stubborn caller over the phone. Almost everybody fears and respects the man at the same time.

You open the door.

It’s him.

Your first words to him is his name–“ _Mister Once-ler_ ,” is the greeting in question, with genuine politeness and slight concern following along.

He greets you back, in a calm, collected manner. Like he always does, but for some reason, you think it sounds a little different. You feel as if he’s hiding something in that pinstriped green tailcoat.

You pick up a certain scent to him as well. Alcohol. He’s been drinking, you deduce. And you ask him about it, where he’s been, what he’s been doing…

“None of your business,” he growls, cutting you off. “At least I’m home now.”

You nod. Before you feel the need to exit his room, you ask Mr. Once-ler what he needs.

He tells you, “Nothing,” other than, “But I’d like you to stay with me a bit. I’d like to tell you something. You’ve done a good job today housekeeping by the way.”

You’re flattered. You don’t ask what it is. But you are suspicious.

Mr. Once-ler sits on top of the mattress. He motions you to join him. You do, placing yourself beside him. You feel shy and somewhat shaky.

The first thing you notice about him (other than his current scent) is how abnormally tall he is. He’s a beanpole, you figure. You can agree with his fans. He _is_  rather handsome. Not to the point where you’d want to get into his pants, though.

You stop your train of thought when you hear him fumbling with a paper bag and what sounds like a cork being popped out of its neck, then the bubbling, fizzing froth of a drink as it is being poured.

Mr. Once-ler pours another portion of liquor into a classic wine glass. “I know it’s your first time drinking something like this,” he tells you as he does.

“So that’s why I’m giving you a smaller portion. Try it out for yourself.”

God, his fingers look rather long, even without those green gloves! He fills the shot glass completely. When he’s done, he carefully holds it out towards you. He was careful not to spill anything on the bed that may stain permanently. For someone who drank a lot before coming here, you thought, he can sure hold down his liquor.

You curiously ask him what kind of drink he’s offering to you.

“Champagne,” he lights up. “Good for formal, fancy New Year’s parties and classy dates. I make an exception though. I use it as a reward for my best servants. You are one of them.”

_He has good taste._

He lets go of the shot glass once you take it it in your hand, and you wait for him to get ahold of his.

“Here’s to your health,” he says.

Why does he sound a little  _off_  today? You raise your glass up to his.

The moment you lowered yours to sip from the shot glass, you start to feel a little fuzzy. When he takes a sip from his, Mr. Once-ler seems to be just fine. You don’t recall feeling like this whenever you sip any alcoholic beverage. Sure, you smell and taste the strongly bitter flavour as you expect from it, but not what’s _supposed_ to come after.

Nevertheless, you down the drink anyway, remembering that you have a shot glass.

That was when it did something.

You feel even fuzzier now…relaxed. Then you feel heavy all over. _What the hell?_ You can’t move! A simple shot glass shouldn’t give you  _this_ much already!

That’s when you spot him, giving you a smirk.

_Oh no._

You hope this isn’t where you think it is going.

Mr. Once-ler asks you, “How is it?”

You don’t respond. You  _can’t_ respond. The words won’t come out. Your mind panics.

He gently cups your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek as if to calm you.  _This isn’t going to work, dammit, don’t fucking touch me._

“It’s okay if you don’t know how it is, darling.” he chuckles darkly. Then he leans towards you, putting his arms around you. He’s crushing you down with his body weight.

He’s on top of you now, latching his lips onto yours. He’s already shoving his tongue inside and you  _hate_  it. It’s like kissing a venomous snake–the tongue pokes in and out of your mouth as you’re trying not to let yourself give in. You feel like you’re about to retch; about to spit out whatever saliva mixed with champagne got into your mouth. 

Thankfully, Mr. Once-ler seems to have noticed your disgust. But the moment he pulls away, he doesn’t look too happy. He lightly slaps your face. It hurts, of course. There’s a stinging pain on your cheek. Maybe he hasn’t given you enough to drink, just so you wouldn’t be able to resist his advances.

You’re trying not to cry. You won’t let those tears escape. You have to endure this. You don’t want to show any sign of weakness in front of him.

Mr. Once-ler continues to kiss you all over. He gives you passionate, feathery kisses all over your jawline, your neck, and–wait, what’s he doing?

He’s pulling at your dress shirt. He rips it in half as the buttons popped away from you. You don’t know where they went after that.  That was one of your best shirts

This isn’t happening. This _can’t_ be happening to you. He’s definitely _not_ about to violate you. Still, you fear that he is going through with what he’s thinking of.

You want to run away.

But he’s got you pinned down by the wrists. Despite his arms being as thin as tree branches, they’re rather strong. You feel small, very small.

_Too small._

You squirm, and he seems to enjoy your anguish, your struggle to get out of his iron grip. He’s giving you an evil grin, baring his teeth like a rutting animal. You’re glad he doesn’t have those sparkling blue-framed shades off. You don’t want those eyes striking into your very soul, but it makes no difference. It’s getting to you anyway. You can already sense his icy gaze upon you. He’s filling his eyes with primal, uncontrollable lust by now.

And then it clicks within your mind.

He drugged you with that drink.

And now he’s trying to have his way with you.

Scratch that, he’s GOING to have his way with you, now that you’re incapacitated. Vulnerable. With no chance to escape.

Nobody could hear your (lack of) cries for help as he hurriedly rips off the rest of your clothes. He strips them like how quickly he’s about to strip away your dignity. By now, you are only left in your underwear. Your last layer before he actually does this to you.

You can’t cover yourself up anymore. You’re under his control.

Then–oh God. Oh God, no.

Mr. Once-ler dives into your ear as you try to inch it away from his words. You barely remember the exact words he says to you. You can smell the alcohol in his breath. His whispering, husky voice makes you want to curl up into a ball.

You yelp when he gives you a sharp bite on your neck. You can’t say a word that clearly without giving out a scream. If sounds count, then that yelp is one of the words you are able to utter. After some more of this preliminary torture, Mr. Once-ler suddenly flips you over on your fours. He’s still towering over you, bent down to taunt you, caging you with his long limbs.

He succeeds in tugging the last of your clothes off. You are fully exposed to him. You hide your face into your shoulders and shut your eyes tightly. You hear him reach for something in the drawer, uncapping it, and squirting it onto his hand. You tell yourself that it’s not lube, but you’re certain that it is.

This isn’t happening. But it is–it’s happening anyway, and you’re denying that you’re powerless to stop it. You won’t be broken so easily.

He leans over you again to wrap one arm around your waist. He must already know that you’re trying to get away. That may be why he feels the need to keep a hold onto you. With his other arm, he reaches over the other, lowers down and–

Oh fuck, is he touching–!

A gasp. What was sacred to you, isn’t anymore. Down there, it feels cold and slimy. Like a snake.

_Like him._

You want to yell at him, but he may yell at you back, so you don’t.

He’s touching that one place you have been taught not to let anyone touch, unless the other person has permission all throughout. You’re practically wheezing now. It’s happening too fast. Everyone around you starts having sex by the time it’s their senior year in high school; Or worse, as early as sixteen. They don’t care about the concept of sexuality.

But you do. And that’s what’s scaring you the most. You aren’t ready at all, and the Once-ler is definitely rushing to claim your apparent virginity.

“Do you like this? Do you like what I’m doing to you?” he murmurs. You choke on a sob and grit your teeth. You only whimper in response.

How else are you able to say something like, ‘ _no, I don’t_ ’ without pissing him off and risking being beat? That one slap on the face is enough for you.

“You’re wet already. I didn’t think it’d be enough, but whatever. Gets the job done, don'tcha think?”

You _aren’t_  aroused. Your body is, to spite your mind. You try not let out a moan. As good as it feels to be touched, you try to tell him to stop. It doesn’t come out clearly from your throat, but you hope the desperate whimpers give the message.

Finally, he withdraws his fingers away from you. You sigh. You’re sure that he isn’t done with you yet.

You hear the rustling of clothes being removed and tossed carelessly onto the floor. For one of the biggest businessmen of the world, aside from looks, he still looks pretty young.

Ultimately, behind your ears, you hear something unzip.

_No…_

You can’t believe he’s going to do this.

You swear that you can feel his hard length press against your thigh.  _Fuck, he’s aroused by this._  You damn well aren’t.

You don’t even want this. It’s happening anyway. You’re too far in. At this point, you are no longer able to escape. You feel as if you’re about to sob. 

He nudges his cock against your inner thigh a few times before you feel him line it up. You brace yourself.

The moment he’s already inside of you, you want to vomit. He’s so _big_. First seconds of taking him in is painful. The emotional pain still stands.  The lubrication helps him, not you.

You feel a shock inside you. No. It can’t be from pleasure. You aren’t getting any from this. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction either.

After a few slow, experimental thrusts, it doesn’t take long for him to pick up his pace. As much as the (physical) pain gradually subsides, you still think it hurts. For the whole time, he’s being so goddamn rough with you.

You know he wants you to make some noise. You try not to give him what he wants.  Somehow, you give an involuntary buck of your hips. He instantly reacts to this with a sharp moan.

 _Damn you!_ Now he’s going to think that you’re enjoying this! You sure as hell aren’t.

Your arms suddenly give out. What happens next all blows up on your face. You gasp in shock and realize what you have just done.

He doesn’t just want the pleasure for himself…

Even with yourself being silent this whole time, he’s still able to get what he wants.

“Ah, that’s it…I think you’re pretty good.”

You won’t allow it.

You won’t let him win. You can’t take his grunts and moans anymore. You wish he can just shut up. If it’s too late for him to stop, he could have at least been quiet about it and get it done with already. You clench the sheets as tightly as you grit your teeth. You’re not going to let him hear you return those sounds.

You quickly direct your teeth to bite your tongue. You’ll do anything to not feel pleasure from this–think about another thing other than one hand going up to press onto your back towards the bed, feel something else other than down there….

Yet there’s literally no point in fighting anymore. Any mental distraction or diversion slip away as you feel something growing inside you. You hope it’s not his dick.

It isn’t. But it’s worse than that. You realize that you have fallen for his dirty trick. You can’t accept it. Even if it’s pretty much a fact. You’re about to give him victory when you don’t want to. You try once again–even if he’s forcing you to give in.

At this point, his thrusts are unbearable. He pounds into you at a certain angle as if he is making sure that he’s giving you bodily spasms. Your body writhes one more time. 

You see no use in screaming for help anymore. Your throat isn’t cooperating for you, let alone your rapist may hear it and think that you’re screaming for him (which you aren’t, God no.)

You can barely say his name. Even if he tells you that he wants you to.

He tells you how much of a “good girl” you are. You  _hate_  it. You hate the pet names he’s giving you throughout.

But a part of you does.

No. You won’t give into his sweet talking.  

His voice is sweetened venom. He’s a snake that slithered into a sugar cane.

He tells you that you’re going to be his. Not only one of his servants, but his property.  _His, and his alone._

 _No, you aren’t,_  and you will never be his…

You’re about to let your guard down.

You let out an involuntary moan. He hums. He’s probably licking his lips right now, the tip of his tongue tracing along his incisions. You feel him sucking on the side of your neck until it’s numb at that spot. A hickey, you assume. You can no longer hold it in. Your moans become increasingly audible for him.

 _Yes, you are. You’re a good girl._ You will be a good girl for him as he tells you to cum for him instead of holding back.

And with that, you give up completely. 

You clench around him. You have tried not to, but your physical response is beyond your control at this point. In spite of yourself, you have obliged…

You feel it twitch inside you, growing and taking up lots of space. You don’t notice how fast he’s driving his hips until you feel something explode. It’s something that’s hot and sticky, shooting deep inside of you. He stops his thrusts, but keeps his hips glued right against yours. You realize he’s balls-deep and cumming inside of you. That pleasure you have felt for a bit? It’s all vanished into thin air. You feel sick to the pit of your stomach. He gives a low groan as you feel him filling you up to the brim. You are beyond humiliated.

He pulls out, and if you haven’t already, your whole, sweat-clad form stiffens. You swear you can feel it drip down your thighs. You know exactly what it is. God, out of anyone else…why does it have to be you?

He collapses on top of you. Now there’s no way you’re able to get up. You’re stuck with the man for the rest of the night. You fear that he may recover and go again.

Fortunately, he doesn’t. He only gives you one more sickening kiss on the nape of your neck.

Other than panting lightly, you can do nothing in response, but twitch at least one part of your body. You can’t even shed a tear. You’re as still as a statue, and all used up like a ragdoll. 

You can’t take in that much air as much as you need it. If you breathe normally, you can only smell alcohol and sex. That’s the literal definition of the man on top of you. You can no longer get away.

He moves down to lie beside you and rolls to his side. Since you are unable to move, you feel him rolling your body towards him. You feel his warm, intoxicated breath, over your face. He must have turned you to face him. You already have your eyes closed. You don’t want to see what kind of look he’s giving you. You’d rather not look at his face ever again, not even the same way again.

You have nothing to do. He caresses you softly as you drift to sleep.

 _This never happened,_  you think.

You want to deny that he has just violated you.

Your mind somehow does that.

But for some reason, your body doesn’t agree with that statement.

* * *

You wake up in cold sweat. You are a curled up position. Thankfully, you are alone.

You can’t remember what happened; can’t remember what happened to you.

You look at the clock–you count that you have been sleeping for about eight hours at the least. It’s still too early for you though. You still feel groggy, instead of well-rested.

That’s when it hit you. A big, flooding wave of feelings and empty memories of what happened that night washed over you.

You feel it now; the dried, yet sticky flow of possible blood when you shift your legs. You feel something else flow out of you. You don’t want to know what it is. You want it all to get out of your system.

You finally realize he isn’t the kind of man he has made himself to be. You have always been loyal to him, always willing to serve him, wanting to tend to anything he needed. But you have never expected this.

Now that you know why he keeps you as a servant for a long time. It isn’t just because of your punctuality, your work ethic or your consistency.

Your distraught heart sinks into the sea of disappointment. Maybe even betrayal.

The feelings and thoughts from that night are still stuck within you.

What if someone finds out about this happening? What if you told anyone about this? They probably won’t believe you. Maybe they will laugh at your face. You can’t bear being called a whore, a slut or worse. They don’t know you, and you won’t know them anyway.

You can’t stand being invalidated, objectified or romanticized either. You don’t want them saying something along the lines of, “He’s rather good-looking and well-behaved. Wish I was there. I know you wanted it like I do. I would gladly take your place.”

 _You don’t understand_ , you mentally reply.  _You don’t know how it feels. Nobody has to go through what I did._

The thoughts about the future make you want to tear yourself apart. That serpent, you dare not say his name, has ruined you. Your body, your hope, your self-worth…

Your will to live.

Other than aches and pains all over, you feel your insides throbbing. This too? The fact that he gave you an orgasm as well makes your stomach twist. It’s a painful coil; you want to walk into a minefield to get rid of this feeling inside you.

You get up and find what’s left of your clothes.

Disgusting.

You no longer have anything to do with your life.

You’d rather be dead that live with this for the rest of your lifespan.

The door leading to the outside the room is locked.

But not the balcony.

You approach the sliding door with interest. It is the opening light to the secluded darkness he has forced himself upon you.

There is only one way out of here, you say to yourself.

And now, you are done for the day.

Perhaps forever.

**Author's Note:**

> If you got to the end of this fic, I am so, so sorry. 
> 
> I know exactly what drove me to write this. I was feeding my mind with dirty fantasies when it suddenly got interrupted by my suppressed sexual trauma in the past. It does that VERY rarely, by the way. And at the end of it I get all guilty, ashamed and disgusted. Then they somehow mixed...they mixed to an idea where somebody gets raped by someone they truly trusted and loved(?) 
> 
> Don't worry, it's all over now, and it doesn't affect me that much in my daily life. I'm definitely a 10/10 okay as I write this.


End file.
